


a wounded work of art

by song_of_fate



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Aftermath, Angst, Aziraphale Loves Crowley (Good Omens), Crowley Loves Aziraphale (Good Omens), Crowley has ptsd, Don't worry, Established Relationship, Hallucinations, Happy Ending, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Mental Health Issues, Nightmares, Other, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Scene: The Bookshop Fire (Good Omens), True Love, brief depiction of someone burning, crowley's low self esteem, he is not dealing well, jumpy prose, minor blood, not real though
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-01-13
Updated: 2020-01-13
Packaged: 2021-02-27 07:48:04
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,850
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22243588
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/song_of_fate/pseuds/song_of_fate
Summary: Crowley never recovered from the trauma of losing Aziraphale to the fire. Even if it didn't happen that way, even if Adam set the Bookshop right again...a part of him was shattered that day.Now to make sure that Aziraphale never, ever realizes just how badly it broke him.
Relationships: Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens)
Comments: 31
Kudos: 383





	a wounded work of art

**Author's Note:**

> Shout out to my favorite sunshine boy It-Is-Ineffable for not only providing this stunning and terrifying [Art!](https://it-is-ineffable.tumblr.com/post/190237772455/fanart-of-the-absolutely-awesome-and-amazing) but for also seeing me through the whirlwind that was this fic. 
> 
> Please be warned that the picture features elements of horror(skin melting) so if that is not your cup of tea, please avoid.

Camouflaged  
Kim McCrea

In all chaotic beauty lies a wounded work of art.  
Beautiful but torn, wreaking havoc on my heart.  
Camouflaged by insecurities, blinded by it all.  
I love the way you sit there and barely notice me at all.

It could almost be called a form of punishment, the way Crowley slept. There were times he had drifted off in the most lavish of surroundings, with down comforters as reminiscent of actual angel wings as humans could replicate (while it was a far, far cry from the original, it was still pretty comfortable when he smoothed it against his skin), and could pretend to cocoon himself in warmth and relative safety—but it never seemed to last.

Demons did not sleep. Well, most demon’s didn’t sleep. Crowley had never considered himself a part of any sort of “most” category and did not intend to change that any time soon. It worked well for him for a long time, allowed a reprieve from Hell’s expectations and his own constantly questioning mind. Things changed after the Ark. After Cain and Abel, after Jesus Christ himself. The horrors of the human world and the faces that had been swept away in the blink of an eye. Tragedy was something Crowley had long become accustomed to.

Now Death; that one was an irritating son of a bitch, but Crowley couldn't deny that without him the planet would be a bit...overcrowded. Did that particular grain of knowledge make it any easier to cope with? He certainly hadn’t been informed if that was the case.

He'd grown used to tragedy, yes, but not heartbreak. He never expected to _care_ so bloody much, but maybe that had been another strike against him when he Fell; the cold detachment of Heaven now a facade he was physically incapable of retaining.

Crowley felt everything, and each loss brought its own retribution in the form of nightmares. Oh, time would numb them, eventually, as time was wont to do. But those spurts in between dreamless sleep and gut-wrenching terror were worse simply because he couldn’t anticipate when they would come. His mind was very human in that respect; wayward and random in sleep. Dredging up old wounds just when he’d thought they’d finally scabbed over, only to pick them raw in the moonlight and leave his chest flayed open with the memories of his own failings.

Armageddon came and fell flat on its face, but it changed everything once again. After the dual shams their Head Offices dared to call "trials" he'd gone back to the bookshop with Aziraphale and just—didn't leave. Well, he'd returned to his flat to make sure his plants were keeping up with themselves, slung a few threats their way and left with one or two of them under his arm. Never realizing just what he was doing with them until the Bentley rolled to a stop in front of the bookshop. Didn't understand what the feeling was when he looked up at it until Aziraphale opened the front door and beamed at him like a solar flare; welcoming, inviting, imploring.

_Oh._ He'd thought, calmer than he’d ever felt. _I'm home._

This is how he found himself curled up in his—Aziraphale's—er, _their_ bed now, as the angel insisted and that was a _whole other thing_ _—_ contemplating the nature of sleep and why he even bothered with it half the time. Why it was with startling clarity that he recognized the reason for his sudden decline of night terrors was due to the brush of fingers in his hair when he fell asleep, the scent of vanilla and ink and light that was Aziraphale wafting up from the sheets.

He ran his chilled hands over the spot where the angel had been lying next to him, still warm, so warm from the heat of his body. At first, the absence would have sent him into a spiral of doubt…but not now. There had been soothing words whispered into his skin before the angel left to go putter around downstairs, and Crowley could still hear him. Could take comfort in the little movements and the domesticity of it. Each creak of old wood, each unconscious muttering of Aziraphale’s was their own form of lullaby that allowed him to nuzzle back into his pillow until his breathing evened out once again.

He should have known better than to let himself become complacent.

* * *

It seeped upward from the very floorboards. Acrid, sharp, suffocating. Hell was not, in fact, all brimstone and flame, and Crowley had not been prepared for anything to have been more painful than the sulfur pits. But his angel was gone, and this…this was true agony.

“Aziraphale!” He bellowed, his own voice unrecognizable; the angel’s name both a prayer and a curse. “Aziraphale, you idiot, where the Heaven are you?!”

All the long limbs of him whirled in scattered half-circles, his eyes drew wide and serpentine but to no avail. They were dim and unfocused and **not good enough**. Still, he desperately searched for any trace of his best friend.

There was no breath in his lungs but he felt them screaming anyway; a knot in his throat that threatened to burst if he ever stopped moving. Everything in him pulled taut and blistering as centuries of memories and hope and home were swept up into cinders that fell into black smudges at his feet.

The water felt like nothing, even as it knocked him back. His entire existence of feeling too much, of being too fast, was promptly wiped out and replaced with a gaping maw where Aziraphale was supposed to be. Nothing mattered anymore. Nothing if he wasn’t here. _Nothing._

“You’ve gone.” It broke him, this knowledge. Maybe this is why God forbade it to them, all those years ago. To spare them this agony of knowing.

“I’m sorry.” He whispered, tears running burning trails down his cheeks. “I failed.”

* * *

When Crowley awoke he took stock of what he knew to be true: He was at home. In their bed. His cheeks were wet, he noted with tired fury, and he hastily wiped the tears away. His nostrils stung with the remnants of smoke but he knew that too would dissipate with the rest of the dredges of his nightmare. All he had to do was wait it out.

Any minute now.

Any minute.

Any—

_It was still there._

Panic clawed its way out of his throat in a strangled yell. He barely registered the miracle that teleported him into the living area, couldn’t even decipher his own thoughts between the litany of _'Please, please no'_ and the prayers he was sure would still not be answered. The kitchen was in flames, and every deep-buried fear rose from its grave with a vicious thirst for his sanity. They licked across his skin hungrily; ravenous for new death. He pressed them back, snarling into the air like fire was a physical being he could rip apart with his bare hands. They couldn't touch him, didn't dare.

Aziraphale was still standing, somehow, the fire spiraling its way up to his pant legs. He appeared to be frozen there, grasping onto the counter with his back to him but otherwise unmoving. Crowley reached for him, tried to call out but no sound made its way passed his lips. The angel turned to him anyway, one eye a hollowed husk and the ghost of a smile tilting up the side of the ruined face that still had lips.

"Crowley," Aziraphale said as his skin burned.

Crowley couldn't even scream.

* * *

"Crowley?" His name came again, something soft and cool brushing across his heated skin. Crowley pried his eyes open at the insistent press around the corners of them and tried not to tremble. He couldn't recall closing them.

When he managed, the fire was gone. The bookshop and their flat remained unmarred by scorch marks and Aziraphale was there, whole and flushed pink and the relief was so sharp Crowley could feel the sting of it in his eyes. Concern marred the tender lines of Aziraphale's face as he looked at him and Crowley breathed out long, slow breaths and pressed his face into the angel's shoulder.

"My dear," Aziraphale asked, running his hand down from Crowley's hair to his back and allowed himself to be held. He pressed into the skin under Crowley’s shirt, saying _I_ _’m here, I’ve got you_ with every firm stroke. Crowley buried his nose into his neck and tried to rid his nostrils of the smell of smoke and burning flesh when Aziraphale asked, "Are you alright? What happened? "

It took everything in him not to shake in the angel's arms. Not to sink his teeth into the flesh of his neck and let the heady mixture of blood and tears drag him bodily back to earth. He'd never told him what it had been like, to find the bookshop burning. To find him gone. Or that it had felt like all the light in the world had been snuffed out in an instant. But that was over now. What point was there in upsetting Aziraphale with something that _technically_ hadn't happened? These nightmares would pass, like the others. He'd learn to cope until then. He had to.

_Never followed you into the waking world though, have they?_ His traitorous mind supplied. He barely resisted the furious hiss that would have given him away in an instant, instead focusing on forcing his heart to behave itself and his lungs to stop acting like there wasn't plenty of air available.

After a few tense moments, he felt himself drift limply into Aziraphale’s arms and lifted his head to meet the angel’s eyes. He couldn't miracle away the evidence of his tears with Aziraphale staring at him, but if Crowley was good at anything it was deflection. The key to a good lie was to add a thread of truth to it.

Sliding his hands up to grasp the ones that still rested on his face, Crowley mustered up a wane smile. "Nightmares. The Fall. I just...needed to make sure you were here."

Aziraphale's face crumbled in sympathy, "Oh, my love. I'm so sorry. You know I'm here to talk if you ever wish or need." He sighed, breath brushing against Crowley's aching eyelids as he pressed delicate kisses to them. Crowley sniffed, blinking them open.

"What—Is something _actually_ burning?"

Aziraphale's face flushed pink. "Ah, well. I was attempting to make us breakfast the human way. It seems I'm...a bit out of practice." He tittered, mouth twisting a bit. He waved his hand, dispelling the smell and likely the mess that had caused it in the first place.

Crowley snorted at him, tension easing from his temples in relief. Of course. It was just a simple mistake. Food burned all the time. It was fine. _They_ were fine.

"Out of practice? Name one circumstance where you've cooked for yourself without cheating."

Aziraphale wrung his hands, not quite meeting his eyes as he tried to feign innocence. "Ah, well...today?"

The laugh startled him. Every memory of the fire left Crowley cold and lifeless, but over everything, he was helpless to Aziraphale and the way he drew happiness from him like a physical tether. He still felt raw. Still felt like his skin was sitting wrong on his borrowed bones, but he could get passed this as long as he still had Aziraphale there to purse his gorgeous mouth in disapproval at him.

Before he knew it, a warm mug was being pressed into his hands and Aziraphale was smiling at him instead. The fascinating blue-green of his eyes pinning Crowley under them as he searched for the lie they both knew was there but would not name.

“You’re sure you’re alright?”

Crowley brought the coffee to his lips, grateful for the distraction and the moment to un-knot his tongue. When the next smile came, it was more genuine if a bit frail. “I will be, angel. Don’t worry about me.”

“I’ve been worrying about you since time immemorial.” Aziraphale’s brow rose at him. “Far be it for me to stop now.”

Leaning over to place his mug down, Crowley gently stepped closer to press a kiss into the angel’s curls; took a moment to breathe him in and let the scent settle something in the ache. Arms wrapped around his waist to draw him close and Crowley sighed.

“How about you tell me what’s on the docket today?” He asked.

Aziraphale’s body did that adorable wiggling motion it did when he was happy about something and Crowley’s grin grew wider despite himself.

“Well!” Aziraphale said. “I’m going to open shop today for a few hours, but then I thought it would be rather nice to kip in for a bit. We’ve been out and about so much the past few weeks. What do you think?”

“I’ve some business to attend to,” Crowley sighed, going boneless and letting Aziraphale take his weight. Which he did easily and much to Crowley’s pleasure. He shook his head at the question in Aziraphale’s eyes. “Nothing official. Just restless is all. Need to go stretch my legs for a bit. I can be home in plenty of time for a meal and a bit of a lie-in.”

.

Aziraphale regarded him for a moment, eyes narrowed just enough to show that he was troubling something out but could not quite find the source of his suspicion. Crowley drew his hands up to kiss them.

“How does Thai sound?” He asked, watching the precise moment Aziraphale buckled.

“Wonderful! Meet at six, then?”

“As you say, angel.”

* * *

Breakfast didn't reveal any new hallucinations and for that Crowley was exceedingly grateful. He blamed it on the chemical reactions of his human body and promptly focused on spending as much time ignoring Aziraphale's personal bubble as he could possibly get away with. Though he toyed with the idea of luring the angel into laying around in bed all day, Crowley knew the itch under his skin wasn't going anywhere if he didn't go do _something_ and unfortunately there was very little true mischief he could get up to in the book shop. So, out it was going to have to be.

He made sure to press a kiss to Aziraphale's lips before he left. Once, twice, three times for good measure, nosing into that space just behind his ear where his scent was strongest and unmasked by cologne."I love you."

"And I, you, my darling." Aziraphale smiled against his cheek. "Enjoy yourself. I'll be here when you return."

It soothed him enough that his edges didn't feel quite so sharp, but he couldn't help the lingering unease that writhed behind his breastbone when he sat behind the wheel of his car. Aziraphale caught his gaze from the shop window, bright and happy as you please and waved merrily enough that Crowley had to double-check to make sure no one saw him wave back like the smitten sop he was.

"Alright," Crowley breathed, willing the car to start. She gave a thoughtful purr and he stroked the wheel. "We can do this. We're fine."

‘ _ **Time waits for nobody,’**_ Freddie crooned from her speakers. He nodded, grip tightening and lips pressing together in ascent.

"No argument from this corner," Crowley said. " I believe the news said something about the city commission divvying out new funds. How's about we go find out who's going to be in charge of the city’s construction, aye?"

* * *

It felt good to be back in his element. Crowley knew that while he was considerably different than other demons, deep down, he still was one. He may not take pleasure in inflicting pain, but there would always be a call to do something objectively _bad_. Something that pressed back against the norm and regulations set forth by the righteous. It didn't matter if that “righteous” was terrestrial or otherwise. Crowley enjoyed causing havoc; watching people break the facade of "nice" and "graceful" and "pious" because at that moment, at the very least, they were real.

All it took was the right suggestions in the right ears, sometimes a little personal intervention if he was feeling particularly dedicated, and wah-lah. First-class seats to his own brand of low-grade evil and he only had to suffer the consequences of his own actions when he forgot about it. Which admittedly happened more often than he cared to admit.

It wasn't any time at all the sidle up to the committee and throw in a few extra planning phases that would cause some rather obnoxious traffic jams on a daily basis. Cars were truly one of Earth's greatest inventions: Made to make their lives easier, and yet so utterly, terribly easy to manipulate into doing the exact opposite.

Crowley strode out of the Capital building with a smile and a swagger, dusting his hands off before opening the door to the Bentley. "Job well done, us." He patted the car. "Government officials are almost too easy. Should really go for more of a challenge next time." Leaning against the top of his car, he looked out at the building once more, smirking at the absolute chaos the new roadways were going to be come the summer months.

The normal street chatter was abruptly interrupted by the sound of sirens as the Fire Brigade came careening around the corner at a pace rivaling Crowley's on a good day. He stiffened, fingers curling harshly against each other and then into the top of the Bentley. He only just stopped himself from pressing finger marked dents into her sleek surface when he realized the trucks were heading in the direction of Soho.

"No," fell from his lips as he scrabbled to get himself into the car. She started without his say so, already turning before he could properly get his hands on the wheel. "Fuck!" Crowley yelled, swerving around the human-driven cars at decidedly inhuman speeds, his eyes trained solely in the direction of the bookshop and Aziraphale. "Not again, _don't do this to me again!_ " He grit his teeth so hard he felt something crack that he didn't bother repairing immediately, too focused on getting there. Maybe he could head it off this time if he could just go _faster._

The fire trucks sped passed the bookshop and the Bentley slammed to such an abrupt stop that Crowley jerked forward, smacking his forehead into the wheel. It didn't stop him from rushing out of the car and striding up the stairs to the bookshop as his heart strained against his chest with such ferocity that he wasn't entirely certain it wasn't sitting outside of him.

Reaching out for the door handle was agony, and time slowed down around him without his consent. Images flashed behind his eyes of fire and smoke once more and Crowley couldn't breathe, he couldn't _see_.

"Oh! I didn't think you'd be back for another few hours yet." Aziraphale's pleasant voice washed over him and Crowley's panic stopped mid screech, holding him there in the pain of purgatory.

"I—I—" He slammed his mouth shut, tried to force his voice to work but Aziraphale cut him off.

"Crowley? You look a fright!" Aziraphale said, reaching out to grasp both of Crowley's arms and gently lead him inside. "Did something go wrong? Was it Hell?" He stopped, eyes widening in fear. "Heaven?"

"I'm—" He swallowed around the golf ball in his throat, mouth twisting against the tremble of his lips. "No. No, it wasn't anyone. I'm fine, angel. Things went a little… faster than expected."

Aziraphale stepped away to shut the door behind him and Crowley noted with relief that the shop was once again empty. It was short-lived, however, when he turned to see Aziraphale eyeing him with sharp concern.

"Please don't lie to me, Crowley."

Crowley flinched as if someone struck him. He never meant to lie. Not to Aziraphale; never to him. But he couldn't bring himself to weigh the angel down with something as frivolous as a _nightmare_ when he was just starting to become comfortable in his own skin again. Crowley could feel the wear of it though; the fluctuation of his moods was taking a toll on his senses and instincts. He was seeing things, panicking, and it was all getting more and more difficult to keep handled by himself. But he couldn't let Aziraphale shoulder this burden for him.

So what he really needed to do was get his shit together and stop scaring his angel.

_A thread of truth_. "I saw the sirens heading this way. Was thinking maybe you'd gone and properly set the kitchen on fire and rushed home." He tried for a rakish smile that he knew didn't quite reach his eyes, but that was precisely what his glasses were for. "Glad to see I was wrong."

They stared at each other for a beat; Aziraphale searching, suspicious. Crowley deflective, trying to hide every twitch and tremor. The problem with keeping secrets from Aziraphale was that since before time was even properly recorded Crowley felt like the angel could see right through him. All the way down to the scared, writhing serpent within. It wasn't a comforting thought, to be exposed like that to the person you loved the most. Not when the truth that lay behind the mask is such a blackened, bloody thing.

Aziraphale's brow furrowed, his head shaking almost unconsciously. "Why won't you tell me what's troubling you?" He asked, and the vulnerability there broke Crowley’s heart in two.

"Because there's nothing to tell, angel." He spread his hands. "I'm fine! I'm good! Spectacular, even! Just been a bit—” He waved his hand around as if trying to encompass the sense of ‘off’ he’d been suffering. “It'll pass. Don't worry your pretty little head about any of it."

In a flash Aziraphale's expression folded inward, sadness and resignation taking up residence in the creases around his eyes. Crowley hated himself. "If you're sure."

Crowley's lips twisted. That wouldn't do. No matter what his _stupid_ brain was trying to accomplish, the whole point of this was that he didn't upset Aziraphale. He snaked up to the angel, wrapped his arms around his middle and leaned in to press a kiss to his brow, then his nose, then the tip of his ear, until his companion was shifting and giggling despite himself

"Dinner at home?" Crowley asked, an olive branch. Aziraphale smiled softly, reaching up to run his fingers through Crowley's hair as he nodded.

"Lovely."

* * *

They did indeed order in Thai from that new place around the corner. It showed up precisely fifteen minutes after the call was placed because Aziraphale insisted they make themselves comfortable if they were going to lie in at home.

Crowley still owned his flat in Mayfair, but the bookshop was home as far as he was concerned. And as such, a few changes had been made to accommodate his sense of organization. Aziraphale hadn't given much thought to the dusty, warped living area above his bookshop until Crowley had insisted upon making it livable. Now it was lined with deep reds and browns in the curtains, a fireplace above which an extremely modern television sat. One which Crowley had fought tooth and nail for because he’d be damned again if he wasn’t able to watch his _Golden Girls_ reruns in the comfort of his own home.

Books that were Aziraphale's personal favorites lined the walls in bookshelves of deep oak brown, kept company by the ivy and philodendron that hung in elegant, lush vines down the sides. It was a perfect blend of _them_ and Crowley always felt better seeing these pieces of themselves next to each other.

The kitchen was small, but it served little other purposes than when Aziraphale or Crowley felt like doing something the human way; which was happening a lot more often as of late. Things felt slow, somehow. Like they could finally take their time. Crowley had never been a fan of anything that didn’t give him a quick and immediate rush but he found himself appreciating the stillness of quiet moments with Aziraphale.

It hurt right now, to be still. To soothe his breathing down and stop the constant clenching of his limbs that he didn't notice until they started to ache with the force of it. Tiny, insignificant things were driving him to horror at most and pure distraction at the very least and it was rapidly on it's way to making him truly insane. In an attempt to distract himself, he took on the task of making cocoa and coffee, surprising himself and his angel by doing it all the human method.

Crowley's black mug and Aziraphale's kitschy angel wing cup sat next to each other on the counter in a perfect dichotomy as he rested his hands on the counter, head hung low as he hissed through clenched teeth to breathe through another harsh well of emotion. _What in the Heaven is wrong with you, you stupid serpent? Get over yourself!_

He straightened, pressing his fingers against his eyes. Everything about his emotional center felt threadbare like it was all going to collapse in on itself any moment. Crowley slept because he wanted to, not because he was tired. But lately, something very akin to exhaustion was set to weigh down his bones.

With grim determination, he finished off Aziraphale's cocoa with a sprinkling of light, fluffy marshmallows and set to bringing both mugs out into the living room where Crowley fully expected to find Aziraphale staring down at the remote like it personally offended him. "Angel, it's the big green button that turns it on. Remember—"

Aziraphale was knelt next to the fireplace, smiling gently at the fire he'd started with the navy shawl Crowley bought for him wrapped tightly around his shoulders. Flickers of red and gold reflected off the glowing white of Aziraphale's hair, casting him in a warm light that at any other moment would have sent Crowley into a liquid puddle on the floor for the way it drew his eyes like starlight. Instead what shot through Crowley was not adoration, but fear.

"A-Aziraphale! Get away from there!"

Aziraphale looked up at him with a questioning tilt to his head. "It's just a fire Crowley, it's not going to bite."

Crowley shook, the scorching liquids falling over his hands burning harsh and red on his skin. "Just. You— _Please_."

"Crowley!" Aziraphale stood now, alarmed at whatever he saw in Crowley's eyes. "Your hands, darling, let me—"

Something cracked but Crowley didn't register the noise when the sound of the fire eating away at the wood filled his ears like war drums. His mind's eye saw the flames reaching out from the fireplace towards Aziraphale, licking greedily at the hem of his shawl and Crowley found himself unable to move. Terrified that if he took his eyes off the fire for a second it would spread and all of this would be ruined — Aziraphale would be truly lost to him for good this time.

Pain lanced up his left hand and Aziraphale's voice sounded like it was coming from behind thick glass. Crowley brought his shaking hand up, shards of white melding with his own blood, and a shattered angel wing lying there in his palm like a sign of what was to come.

Crowley's knees hit the ground. He stared at the small, broken thing in his hands, pressed it hard into his skin until it stung. Aziraphale was grasping his shoulders, his face, wiping away tears that Crowley didn't realize were rushing down his face in thick rivulets. He could see him trying to talk to him, but Crowley’s ears were filled with sirens.

"I'm sorry," Crowley whispered. "I'msorryI'msorryI'msorryI'msorry—"

Aziraphale's hand settled gently on the back of his neck and Crowley didn't know when he'd buried his face into the soft fabric of the angel's waistcoat but he pressed in as close as he could without sharing the angel's body. It was surely tear-stained and smeared with blood where Crowley was grasping desperately; another precious thing ruined by his hands.

Broken sounds escaped him, sobs that felt like rods of iron being forced from his throat. "I left you." He hissed wretchedly. "I left you alone and they _took you_ and you _burned_."

“No,” Aziraphale said, anguished. “ _No_ , Crowley _._ It was an accident, remember? I wasn’t here when the fire started I was just—”

Hands buried into Crowley’s hair, soft, stroking. When they brushed against his cheek, they trembled, even as they lifted Crowley's face. The angel's eyes were shining with tears.

"Crowley," Aziraphale swallowed. "Oh, my love, my dearest one. How did I not realize you were suffering so." He slid to his knees, grasping Crowley's face in his hands. "Look at me, please." Aziraphale's voice brooked no argument and Crowley dragged his head up to look at him. "Do _not_ apologize for something that you cannot control. I won't have it.” Soft, delicate fingers pressed to Crowley’s lips to stop them from moving. “Nothing that happened to the shop or me that day was your doing and _none_ of it would have happened if I hadn't been such a bloody _coward_ to begin with."

The Angel's voice caught and Crowley stopped breathing in turn. Aziraphale face twisted into something bitter, turned inward at himself. "I put my faith in Heaven instead of you and it almost destroyed us all. If anyone should carry this burden, my dear, it should be me."

"You don't need to take this from me, angel." Crowley whispered miserably, "You were always trying to warn me that something would go wrong and the second I turned my back..."

“I never for a moment believed you left.” Aziraphale’s smile was small but sincere. “Part of me knew, that you’d return, that we’d be side by side as always. I only…I desperately wanted to hope that Heaven would see reason.” He looked miserable then, a shadow passing over his beautiful face and Crowley leaned into him until their foreheads met, unable to look at the pain there. Aziraphale’s breath brushed against his lips. “I turned my back on you. Twice. Precisely when you needed me the most. The truth of the matter is that I don’t believe I quite deserve you.”

That startled Crowley and he flung himself back to gape at Aziraphale, drawing air back into his lungs and curling the edges of his mouth in something close to a snarl. “How—How can you even say that? After everything, everything that’s happened, you really expect me to believe that? I—I’m broken, angel.” He shook his head, disgusted with himself. With the weakness that brought them here. “I’m not the same.”

“You were always there for me. From the beginning. Even when you claimed you weren’t.” There was such conviction in his expression, such a knowledge of what Aziraphale knew to be true, and it began to unwind Crowley’s heart from his throat. “I never told you, not once, how much it meant to me to have you there. Not just as my unexpected savior; but as my friend.”

That ugly, tortured thing in Crowley thrashed and welled up; wanted to scream denials at the angel. Tell him he was mistaken, that all the goodness that had cocooned around them in their millennia-long relationship was due to him and him alone. That Crowley was incapable of cultivating happiness and warmth. That even after he’d tried so very hard to be different he ended up being just as destructive and selfish as the rest.

But Aziraphale was looking at him now, truly looking, and he reached up to remove Crowley’s glasses from his face with all the tenderness of handling a newborn. He stroked along his eyes, his smile holding so much love Crowley thought he would drown in it. His thoughts did not stop entirely, but they quieted. His body and mind drifting further into the angel’s space because as always— _as always_ —he was drawn into the orbit that was Aziraphale.

“You are not broken, my darling. You never were. But you are in pain; one that I fear I cannot take from you.” Aziraphale continued, brushing his fingers through the fringe of hair at Crowley’s temple. “Our hearts….they hold a different kind of power than our miracles.” He drew Crowley’s bleeding hand up, pressed his lips gently into the center and Crowley gasped as his wounds knitted back together. Aziraphale brought Crowley’s hand up to his cheek, holding it there against the impossible warmth that was the angel’s skin and Crowley felt fresh tears spring to his eyes that he didn’t bother to hide. “What I can do is promise you that I will never leave you again. That I will fight for you, for us, for this life we’ve chosen together. That you are my most precious, treasured one, and that I will tell you again and again until your nightmares are nothing more than ghosts.”

Crowley was speechless. Raw and scrapped clean. But he fell into the cradle of his angel’s arms and tucked his face into his neck, feeling like he needed to touch and be touched to survive this.

Aziraphale stroked his back, fingers coming up to brush the shell of his ear. “Forgive me, Crowley. Forgive me for not understanding sooner.”

Crowley wanted to say something, anything, but his throat had closed up entirely. There was too much there in the thrum of his heart, too much that wanted to be spoken into the air that it all collided together in a painful lump. It wasn’t for him to forgive an angel. For this to even be happening…surely had the Almighty was rolling around on whatever cloud she was lounging on up there.

But Aziraphale held him tightly, pressing kiss after kiss into his hair; whispering words of love and reassurance and not expecting anything of Crowley more than what he could give at this moment. It was a revelation in itself. That Crowley was allowed to take his time, that he did not need to race to the end of something, even his own betterment.

They sat there, in the middle of the floor for hours and hours that they barely noticed pass. Until their tears had dried and Crowley’s breathing had shallowed. Then in a blink, they were in the bedroom, Crowley sluggish and spent from the drain of his emotions. Aziraphale tucked in next to him, wound himself fully around Crowley’s body, but the words never stopped. He heard them as he drifted off, he heard them when his mind would no longer process the sounds.

When his dreams came this time; they were of fluffy wings and tender eyes. Of white hair and a sweet smile. And a hand reaching out to guide him when the noise became too much.

“I’m here,” Aziraphale said, in dream and in waking. “I’m here.”


End file.
